


Night

by StAnni



Category: The OA (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 07:06:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18405620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StAnni/pseuds/StAnni
Summary: He’s not okay and the cracks inside are spidering out, vibrating through him every waking moment of every day – slowly, inch by inch.  But it’s not Buck’s fault and just the thought of Buck worrying, like he always does, clenches tight around French’s heart.





	Night

FRENCH

He lights a cigarette and in the motel room the plume of smoke looks like a dirty blanket spreading into the darkness. “French?” Buck says, next to him, dark eyes over his pale shoulder. “You okay?”

He’s not okay and the cracks inside are spidering out, vibrating through him every waking moment of every day – slowly, inch by inch. But it’s not Buck’s fault and just the thought of Buck worrying, like he always does, clenches tight around French’s heart.

“Go back to sleep.” French says quietly, putting his hand on Buck’s shoulder – smooth and cool to his touch. An hour ago his fingers were digging into the skin there, holding Buck’s naked back to his chest as he came – Buck’s head thrown back and hair soft against his shoulder.

“Are you worried about Steve?” The question is innocuous but it riles him up nonetheless – swift as a shadow. The anger in him is always there – right below the surface. It is shameful.

Back home he has a brother who needs to be taken care of, and a mother who can’t.   
Back home he may have anchors weighing him down – but they keep him in place. 

Out here there is only the dark unknown, Buck’s soft mouth, BBA’s sad wisdom, Jesse’s corpse in a morgue somewhere and Steve’s devastating hope. Out here he drifts.

So he breathes, waits until Buck looks at him again before he answers. “Honestly?” and Buck nods, eyes even – braced. “The only thing I give a shit about is getting this over with.”

Buck sits up next to him and his eyes are unreadable but determined even in the unlit night. “We’re never going home, Alfonso.” He says in his quiet way – but the words are hard, tough as nails, truth. “This is it.” French knows that he has scraped against something raw with his words – something sacred. And it hurts him to hurt Buck.

“I didn’t mean…I don’t care about you. I didn’t mean….” He starts to placate but he knows the damage that he has caused because he knows Buck, knows his quiet resolve and fidelity, his sweet kind heart. Buck folds into tears at the thought of Jessie, Buck grips the back of his shoulders when he lifts that lithe body against his. Buck whispers his name like a prayer when he pushes him down on the nearest flat surface, whenever French has the need for him, a hunger that only Buck can sate now – even if it is only for a while. 

So he does let go, in that darkness, and they sit in the silence of it – together but both alone.

 

BUCK

He doesn’t say anything else and French takes a shaky drag from his cigarette before he kills it. He hates the smell of cigarette smoke, but next to French the smell is different – everything is different – things rise and sink inside of him, just out of reach – but there, waiting to be remembered.

When French leans closer, tentatively and with contrition, he parts his lips to French and the kiss is a maelstrom, drawing him in immediately and that instant connect stirs all that is inside of him, all the want – heady and intoxicating.

Their first time was a few days after the shooting, when he found French trembling with something just on the edge rage in the attic of the unfinished house. He had put his hand on French’s shoulder, and then on his cheek and then when French rose, pulling Buck into him, his body warm as heated steel. Their first time had been Buck’s first time and when French pushed into him, his hips straining as he held himself back – Buck’s heart shattered open, light and free.

After that there was the lonely stretch of quiet that followed – no call, no words – just the empty space where his heart used to be.

But that all changed. Again. They all change all the time, and for a while French slipped through the door that Buck left open, night after night. Until that stopped eventually too and by that time scar tissue had started to form, had started to barricade.

So tonight, French’s relapse is familiar and although it had hurt, it has not been as deep, as aimed as it had before. 

As if he is swimming up through an ocean French’s wave of remembrance overtakes them both and he surges against Buck, lifting up and then pushing down, covering Buck skin with searing kisses – his hands quick and fervent – his desire so intense that it sparks and fuels Buck into a matching zeal.

And his gaze, his eyes, locked on to Buck as he chases his release in an ardent rhythm, feels like staring into the sun, dry lightning until his hips stutter and Buck can feel French pulse deep inside of him – a star flickering to life.

Until it’s out and sleep takes them both into a new, uncertain day.


End file.
